There was a sense of urgency in the air. All of Britain’s greatest scientist had been consulted and they had concurred on the impending disaster. The plans were thus drawn and approved. The supplies were bought. All that was left was for the construction in London to start. The Prime Minister was nervous. His job, once the construction started, was to divert public attention away from this monumentally huge undertaking. The Prime Minister knew that it was the taxpayers money that was being used in the construction in London and he wanted to alert the people of Britain but his advisers thought otherwise and thus he, the Prime Minister, had to keep quiet. So, it is in his private quarters, that we find the Prime Minister, spending an alone moment painting. He so enjoys this time away from all the politics and public scrutiny. Painting was his passion, not politics and he sometimes wonders how it came to be that he was the Prime Minister. He loved painting, ever since he was a young lad. Granted he was not an accomplished artist, but he could hold his own if needed. His late wife, bless her soul, had always adored his paintings and had encouraged him to display them, but he was too afraid. Too afraid! Too afraid of what the people would think. Besides, his advisers had been against it. Ah, his advisers. All a bunch of morons as far as he was concerned, but alas he could do nothing about them. They had worked their way into power and united they were a formidable force. Besides, he was getting old and his days of fighting were long over. He knew that the only reason he was still the Prime Minister was because his advisers, the ones that really ran the show, needed someone they could control. He paused and looked at his painting. It was that of an old man sitting alone on a chair. He felt that he could easily have been painting himself. As he stared at the painting, his mind drifted to the impending disaster that would soon befall the people of Britain and he secretly wished, no prayed, that those brilliant scientists had got their conversions wrong and that the construction in London would not be necessary. And even as he stood there by his painting, praying, he heard the quick footsteps echo through the empty passage that separated his private quarters form the rest of the building. After a few seconds of silence, there was a knock on the door. The Prime Minister opened the door to find his secretary standing there. “It is time, Sir. They have started the construction in London.”, she said, “Your presence is requested.” The Prime Minister nodded, put down his paint brush and followed his secretary out the door.